My Fishies- Living With A Sadistic Schizoaffective Father

Below is a true story I feel like sharing.

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When I was a little girl, my father had a fish tank he set up facing a 20 year old brown air conditioner in the 100 year old house I lived in with him and my mother.

Even though it was his childhood fish tank, I got to go to the pet store and pick out the gold fish each week.

I got to name the fish. I had a lot of fish named Sara. Over and over, there was a Sara.

They were my pets and I loved them.

I had to go to the store each week for new fish because each week my fish would die.

They didn’t die because they had a short life span.

Nor did they die from me not feeding them.

I loved my fish and took care of them.

 

No, my father called himself an inventor.

He

“experimented”

with making his own filter.

 

Every morning I would wake up with my fish sucked into the filter.

Sometimes they were already dead. All sliced up. Beheaded. Finless. Bodies mangled.

Sometimes their bodies were still in the tube, midway being sliced. Stuck.

Sometimes they would be in shock, clinging to life under the sponge. At that point, injured.

I’d unplug the filter and try my best to scoop them out.

I’d put them back in the tank and plug the filter back in.

They get sucked up again.

They died.

I was so sad that they died!

 

This was my normal.

 

Each week my father took me to the pet store.

Each week I named the fish he was going to kill.

Each week he would kill my pet fish.

I was so sad that they died!

 

That’s an example of what it’s like living with a degenerate fuck, a schizoaffective sadistic muthafucka, child abusing, animal abusing lowlife scum of the fucking Earth.

 

I didn’t realize the behavior wasn’t normal till my freshman year of college. I had to write a childhood story in a Writing 101 class. My professor took me aside and asked if this was true. I said, “Yeah, why?” She gave me a- WHAT THE FUCK- look. And then it hit me. My father killed my pets for years. And he made me name them, knowing they would die.  He made me name my fishies and then he’d slaughter them.

 

And here I thought my mother was the only one with “battered women syndrome”. My ass. I didn’t even know this was not a normal fucking thing. No clue. No idea. Never phased me. Never phased me at all.

 

This is one of the many reasons why I moved out, left everything and never looked back at 15 years old after he broke me. Screamed at me until I went catatonic. My mother went back in the car when he came to pick us up at the hospital I was sent to because he broke me. And my mother kept going back. I DIDN’T. I never went back.  She did. She is the failure- all the while in therapy. No excuse there. Had all the support in the world. A big family. Church outreach. Psychotherapy. Everything at her fingertips. I was the one with nothing. I was the child.

 

And you know what? He filed to sue me to not pay child support because I refused to see him. And she kept pushing me to have a relationship with him because he was my father and because she needed child support. She continued to push me to talk to him for years. Eventually gave up.

 

Meanwhile, he liked to have “sex” with my dog too. And tell me about it. Smiling. Tell me about while smiling. All casually. That’s another story. I’ll tell you about it some time.

 

Yeah. So now you know a bit about one of the people who made me the way I am. And that person is evil and still alive. And that person is the person in most of my trauma poems.

 

No wonder I don’t sleep. It’s after 6AM. No wonder I’m the way I am. You’d be “fucked up” too- mood disorders, anxiety, insomnia, self-harmer.

I LOVE SEEING MYSELF BLEED BY MY OWN KNIFE.

No one ever protected me from him. NOBODY.

Not the police, not my mother, not my family, not God.

When I call God an asshole- well he is. No one saved me. No one was there when I prayed.

I had to protect myself. I was a kid. I was a little kid. Alone in a house. Locked in the upstairs violet bathroom that had a mermaid picture above the toilet and had a sunk-in tub to the left with a skylight above it and a reclaimed stained glass church window to the right. Waiting, there, with a phone in my hand. Waiting, there, at 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, years old to call 911 if I heard glass break.  Waiting. Waiting. Locked in.

 

I’m on the wrong side of my 20s and still feel like the my back is naked, exposed to the world. I wait for my next attack. Cynical, no that is not the word. REALISTIC because I learned early that this is what life is really like. It’s not wonderful. It’s this. That’s what happens when you grow up in the real world. You never, ever feel safe because you’ve seen the evils of the world.

 

And this is only a tiny example of one tiny evil of my childhood. One tiny evil. One tiny little thing. One thing I don’t even think of. Maybe once a year. Like now, after my friend mentioned she ate shrimp the other night. I mean, in the long run- they were just my pets he was killing and making me scoop out of the tank for years- right? Just pets. Fish. I didn’t even start going on about the sexual stuff and the physical abuse and the emotional abuse. Maybe this goes under emotional. But again, just a little thing. A little aspect.

 

And I’m angry and have every right to be.

And now I’m sick with a degenerating disease the meds of which can kill me- on and off chemo.

Yeah, God’s an asshole.

You’re all fucking assholes.

 

 

xoxo

Drem

 

 

PS-

I don’t eat fish.


4 thoughts on “My Fishies- Living With A Sadistic Schizoaffective Father

  1. As serious and awful this is to read and digest. I can’t help but detect some humour in here. Like I don’t eat fish and named all my fish ‘Sara’… I can understand your anger and you are justified to express it. I believe there is a born survivor in you. There is happiness- the hardest thing to do is to let go. I am still working on it. Hugs and thank you for sharing something so truly raw and painful xxx

    Liked by 1 person

    1. The Sara thing, yeah. I suppose so. It was also just really weird having so many fished named Sara. And I don’t eat fish. I lie and say I’m allergic. What else can I say?

      Like

    1. It’s real because it’s true. I wrote it in one sitting when I was really depressed a few nights ago. Wasn’t sure if I was going to post it because it’s sad. I’m glad the words had an affect. That’s the goal as a writer. No matter what affect- at least something.

      Like

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